


The Wolves Are Out Calling

by Naiesu



Category: The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: 5 + 1 Things, Angst with a Happy Ending, It's more like 6 + 1, M/M, lil bit of smoochin in there, nothing happens that didn't already happen in the books
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 23:36:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11172459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naiesu/pseuds/Naiesu
Summary: “It won’t come to that,” Newt says softly, but the way he clings to Thomas belies his worry, and they both know he is lying.





	The Wolves Are Out Calling

**1.**

Thomas is no stranger to fear. Not anymore. But there is something different this time, something making the air thick with tension, any hope that had once existed among the Gladers drifting away. Panicking is no longer a decision they have the freedom to make. Time is of the essence.

The Doors will not close, and people are dying.

He doesn’t sleep, or at least that’s what it feels like. Running the Maze and staying out at night, only to come back to a deserted glade to hole up in the Homestead. The answer is there, brushing against his thoughts but always staying just out of reach, and he knows just how to find it. But he is as scared to open up his past as he is of the thought of how it must happen.

Newt is next to him, having insisted on his presence up on his bed. Thomas is staring into space, trying to brace himself for what is sure to happen in only a few hours, when Newt’s eyes open, clear and reflecting the same anxiousness that Thomas feels brewing in his chest.

“You’re thinking awfully loud,” Newt whispers, reaching out to brush his fingers over Thomas’ palm. Thomas curls his fingers, trapping them there. “What is it? Besides the obvious, of course.”

Thomas doesn’t know what to say, can’t bring himself to tell Newt. “It’s nothing,” he murmurs.

Newt’s gaze hardens, calculating. Thomas is a terrible liar. “Tommy,” he shifts closer, melding their bodies together. Thomas’ head ends up pressed against his shoulder, nose at Newt’s collarbone, and somehow—somehow—it calms him. Even if just a bit, “What’re you planning?”

Thomas shakes his head, and Newt’s hand tightens around his. It’s not a threat. It’s worry. Newt’s body is rigid against his, as if he’s already guessed what Thomas is going to do.

“Tommy,” he whispers, and it sounds so much like a plea it hurts. “What are you going to do?”

Thomas caves. He squeezes Newt’s hand back, forcing his nose into Newt’s shoulder but leaving his mouth uncovered. “I’m going to get stung.”

Every muscle in Newt’s body goes stiff, and he’s holding himself so tense he’s beginning to shake. Before he can cut him off, Thomas continues. “I need my memories back. There’s something I need to remember, but I have no way to do it without the Changing.” He pulls away for a brief moment, meeting Newt’s eyes. He hates the desperation he sees there, wants to soothe it away. “I can get us out of here.”

The hope that Thomas catches in Newt’s expression is fleeting, but it is there all the same. His gaze goes stony as he looks back at Thomas. “Looking to be our bloody hero again.”

It’s an angry mutter, but it has no real heat, and Thomas curls back into Newt’s side, trying to soak up all the comfort he can.

“It won’t come to that,” Newt says softly, but the way he clings to Thomas belies his worry, and they both know he is lying.

Two hours later he’s been pricked a dozen times, and he lets sleep take hold, falling under to the look of terror in Newt’s eyes.

He wakes up three days later with the perfect idea—and by perfect he means only. Newt is sitting in a chair beside him, looking a bit worse for wear, but lets Thomas have control of the conversation so they can make plans. Newt’s expression is a mix of nerves and hope, and Thomas can’t help the smile that breaks out on his face when he thinks about it. They’ll be out of the Maze. Their trials will be over. _Freedom_.

The word sounds like damnation when he mouths it to himself, so he boxes it up, pushing it to the back of his mind. He can’t jinx them now. Won’t.

It is so, so much easier than he imagined to gather everyone up and convince them. _He got stung to lead us out of the Maze_ , their eyes say. _How can we not trust him?_

Newt meets him by the Box, and they sit in silence, closer than necessary but also not. Newt’s shoulder presses into his, fingers taking his hand again. It feels good, and he lets himself have that one last touch before they go into the Maze. He deserves it.

It ends too soon. People gather by the East Door, and Newt stands up to lead them with Minho. “I’m in charge now,” he says, rolling his eyes. There is a hint of a smile on his lips, and Thomas doesn’t know if it’s real or it’s just there to mask his nerves. “I guess.”

Thomas can’t help it. Won’t allow himself to lose this thing that he has, that _they_ have. Protectiveness bubbles up in his chest. For Chuck, for Teresa, for Newt. He tugs on the collar of Newt’s shirt, kissing him soundly.

“There’ll be more where that came from once we’re out,” he says, tapping Newt’s chest with the fingers still wrapped up in his shirt.

Newt smiles, wry. “Someone’s gotten cocky.”

“Would you lovebirds get over here so we can go?!” Minho shouts, and every Glader they’ve gathered turns to stare, snickering.

They both flush red, but it’s not a bad feeling. Thomas thinks he can get used to it.

The Maze is a hazard in the daytime, much less what now passes for night. The twilight sky above them offers just enough light to see by, and the walls cast long shadows across the ground where the paths aren’t already enveloped in darkness. It is nerve wracking, the way they have to be silent without the use of their sight, the sounds of far-off Grievers bouncing off the stone and haunting the air. They will be out soon, Thomas repeats to himself. _Freedom freedom freedom_.

Newt shakes when Alby runs to the chopping block, covering his ears and forcing his gaze to the ground. Thomas offers what little consolation he can by pressing them close, and tries not to think about the sobs Newt can’t quite cover up.

And then it is a bloodbath. Thomas runs, pulling both Teresa and Chuck along behind him. Blades are nicking his sides and back, clawed hands pulling at his clothes when they manage to catch him, but he doesn’t stop. Teresa jumps in the Griever Hole first, and Thomas hoists Chuck up, throwing him as best he can. He wants to jump in, escape the fight as much as his mind rebels against the idea of leaving his friends to the fend for themselves, but he can’t.

He risks one look behind him, catches sight of long blond hair, and jumps.

Chuck is the best idea he’s had in a while, spotting the button both him and Teresa are too panicked to see. The Maze shuts down in a cacophony of groans that slowly fades into nothing. The Griever holding Thomas falls onto its side.

Almost immediately people begin dropping into the room they’re in, and Thomas can’t hide his relief. So many are dead, he knows, but the ones important to him are not. It’s a cruel thought, but one he can’t deny himself. Relief overpowers his conscience.

Thomas looks around at the faces he sees, covered in blood and grime and looking worn to the bone. He pushes through them when he sees Minho, patting his shoulder both to get his attention and as a congratulatory gesture. But the look on his face wipes away any ease Thomas had slowly been cultivating.

He is crying, but trying to look like he’s not.

“Where’s Newt?” Thomas asks. His smile is stilted at best, and when Minho bites his lip and turns his face down to the floor, dread settles in. He reaches out again, hand hovering between them, and tries to force his smile. “Minho, where’s Newt?”

“He’s,” Minho says, and chokes a little. He points above them, to the cliff.

Thomas doesn’t want to believe it, but his chest is tightening. He pushes anyway, hoping upon hope the answer isn’t the one he’s thinking, even though he knows, deep down, that it is. “He’s?’’

“He’s dead, you dumb shank!” Minho snaps. As quickly as the anger appears, it dissipates, and he curls into himself.

 _Dead_ , Thomas thinks, numbing all over. _Gone, deceased, no more. Dead_.

His emotions had taken root, and he had immersed himself in them, ignoring his own warnings. Newt had been a safety net, calm and collected and so, so sweet and Thomas had let himself fall.

He has never regret anything more.

 

**2.**

Gally is there, and Chuck is by his side, but he is not the one moving. Newt takes a knife to the chest and smiles up at Thomas as blood trickles down his lips.

 

**3.**

Everyone is anxious, walking in the dark as they are. They can see nothing, and no one has flashlights any longer, making the air tense and silent. Oddly enough, there is a slight feeling of drive that clings to each person as they walk, not quite hope but almost there, and Thomas thinks it may have something to do with the food they’d been given after three days of starving and wallowing in their own misery.

He is in the back, and he worries, but Newt is in the front with Minho. He will be the first one out, and Thomas is already trying to calm himself with thoughts of standing together.

Newt can take care of himself, and he knows this. He’s killed Grievers. There is little that can stop him.

The voice above them is angry, threatening them with each step they take. Sliced. Thomas wonders what it means. Will knives come out of the walls and cut them up? Robots with helicopter blades sharp as any sword? He wouldn’t put anything past WICKED at this point.

The tension rockets up, but they keep moving, ignoring any complaints of returning to the dormitories. The Rat Man had said they would die if they stayed, at least they have a chance at living now. The group speeds up just the slightest bit, anxiety winning out, and Thomas tries not to bump into the boy in front of him.

Screaming starts up, far in front, and Thomas drops his water bag.

The Gladers have stopped, murmuring to each other quietly. He pushes through them, shoving himself up to the front, and stops when his feet nudge a body thrashing on the floor.

“Newt!” His voice sounds distant to his own ears. He drops down to the ground, trying to pin down Newt’s legs as he writhes. “Newt, what’s wrong?!”

But he doesn’t answer, and his screams turn to shrieking, loud and terrorized. It’s horrifying, like he’s being tortured. Thomas still has no idea what’s wrong. He wishes he had a flashlight more than ever.

His hands grasp Newt’s shoulders, barely holding him to the floor, and he wants to ask again, what’s wrong, what’s going on, how do I _help_ , but Newt’s screams warp like he’s drowning. His hands are grasping at his head, and Thomas moves his hands up to feel, but Newt goes limp underneath him.

His fingers brush over hard metal, and almost as soon as he touches it, it hits the ground with a dull thud, rolling away.

Somebody mumbles something when it bumps into their feet, _It’s a sphere_. Thomas hardly hears it.

Liquid seeps onto his skin, thick and warm, and his stomach turns.

Minho finds his shoulder and squeezes, and his throat is thick with barely contained emotion when he says, “We have to keep going.”

Thomas stands up and runs.

 

**4.**

Newt lies on the ground in the middle of the storm, burnt beyond recognition and screaming. Leg blown off and eyes gone, skin split but somehow alive.

Thomas does not stop.

 

**5.**

Thomas meets up with the Gladers, them walking and him sprinting. He should conserve his energy, but he could care less now. There is no Safe Haven. At least not one that he can see. Teresa and Aris run behind him, but his speed and stamina are better, and the gap between the three of them widens with every step. He can’t stand to be in their presence another second.

The Gladers hear them, and turn around when he is a few meters away.

“Tommy?!” Newt pushes through their dwindling group, eyes alight and smile fighting its way into his expression.

Thomas crashes into him, almost knocking them both to the ground, but it’s worth it for the way his skin tingles where they touch and his anger drains away, replaced by a sort of content. Newt presses his nose into Thomas’ hair, hands pulling him as close as he can. A laugh builds in Newt’s chest, and Thomas presses his hand to it to feel, unable to help his smile when Newt smothers the sound in Thomas’ skin. He wishes he could soak it up, wrap himself in it.

Catcalls and insults with little feeling are thrown at them, and suddenly the dark cloud hanging over the group is gone, replaced with a muted cheer. If it takes the Gladers laughing at him to get there he thinks he can handle that.

The two of them break apart, and everyone starts walking again. He ignores Teresa and Aris.

“We thought you were dead,” Newt says, a bit softer than normal, like he doesn’t want to draw any attention to the two of them. His eyes flicker to Teresa, going steely.

Thomas brushes their fingers together, trying to make it seem like an accident but knowing it’s not. Newt seems to think the same thing, gaze dropping back down to Thomas and relief taking the place of his anger. “So did I.” _Focus on me_ , he wants to say, but he is too embarrassed.

Newt’s face pinches, like he’s still angry but trying not to show it. “But you’re not.”

"No,” he agrees. “No, I’m not.”

That is enough to placate him, and Newt looks forward, straightening back up. He brushes their hands together again, and Thomas tangles their fingers.

The Safe Haven is a stick in the ground.

Conversation starts up, and Thomas and Newt join Minho where he’s trying to plan with Group B. Wind picks up around them, whipping dust into their eyes. Thomas stares at the sky and wonders if they can survive another storm.

They are trying to decide where to go, what to do, _there is no shelter and we can’t backtrack_ , when the ground shakes and splits. Pods open up around them, long and wide and sleek, and huge human shaped figures slide out, faceless.

The weapons they have are shoddy and poorly made, but that stops no one. Even if the Safe Haven does not exist, it doesn’t mean they will stop fighting.

Smashing the bulbs on the creature’s body quickly becomes a better idea than slashing his knife wildly, and Thomas kills the one he is fighting. Rain pours down in a thick sheet, wind blowing so hard it’s almost going horizontal. He can’t see much. The glow of the remaining bulbs around him is the only indication of where anyone is.

He rushes to the closest creature, knife poised to thrust, and just manages to come within a few feet when he sees the body it is perched over.

Blond hair a mess of mud and slicked to his skin with rainwater, eyes wide as he crawls back away from the creature. His leg is bleeding heavily, and it seems to pain him to move it at all.

Thomas pushes himself to run faster, sliding on the wet ground.

He can only watch as stubby fingers lunge down to Newt’s throat and slice through skin like tissue paper.

Thomas stabs. And stabs and stabs and stabs.

 

**6.**

Newt begs to be killed with his one last shred of sanity, and Thomas pulls the trigger.

 

**+1**

They’re running—all of them. Ignoring falling debris and fallen people, and Thomas shoves Minho through the Flat Trans, trying to pretend Teresa’s blood is not seeping out onto the concrete behind him. He pulls Newt through, stumbling into the shed. Brenda closes the Flat Trans, and they all back away, staring.

It takes a long, long time for anyone to speak, instead staring at the shed that is now up in flames.

“It’s over,” Newt whispers, unbelieving. His eyes are wide, shocked, distant. Thomas is sure he looks the same.

Everything they went through, everyone who died, all buried on the other side of a burning building.

Minho grabs them both, pulling them all together in a tight hug, and laughs. Open, without worry. Thomas feels himself smiling, too, and even through his disbelief Newt’s lips tilt up. _It’s over_ , Minho’s expression says, _It’s over and we’re alive_.

The other Immunes are babbling behind them, and Minho pulls away, leadership funneling back into him. Brenda follows behind him.

Newt still holds on to Thomas, like he’s afraid if he lets go the illusion will shatter. Thomas doesn’t mind. He walks closer to the distant sound of waves crashing upon the shore, and sits, tugging Newt down with him. They both stare at the sunset, somehow brighter and more colorful than the ones they’ve witnessed before.

“Is that really it?” Newt asks.

Thomas squeezes his hand, looking over at him. Newt meets his gaze, tension in every line of his body, and Thomas runs his thumb over Newt’s knuckles. The skin there is dry and cracked and bloody, but all Thomas can think is _mine, mine, mine_.

He tugs Newt down to him, and despite how dirty and beat to hell they must look, Thomas still feels warm when their lips meet. It’s soft and gentle and Thomas’ lip stings where Janson busted it, but it doesn’t make him pull away. Nothing will anymore. They are safe and any worries that may have stopped them before exist only in their thoughts.

Newt sniffles when they break away, smile shaky and eyes watering, as if he’s scared to hope but can’t help it.

Thomas runs his thumbs over Newt’s cheeks, wiping away his tears, and Newt laughs. It’s cheery and boisterous and just a little bit choked with emotion, but it lights up his expression and crinkles his eyes.

Thomas kisses him again.


End file.
